


The Happy Memory

by mypetrock



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angsty Schmoop, Confused Harry, Draco Malfoy Has Issues, Falling In Love, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, HP: EWE, Happy Ending, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, House Elves, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), POV Harry Potter, Patronus, Post-Deathly Hallows, Romance, Slow Burn, Snogging, author has a fondness for dropping off the face of the earth, dates that are masquerading as memory-making extravaganzas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2018-10-02 08:57:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10214027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mypetrock/pseuds/mypetrock
Summary: Harry knew it wouldn’t be easy to adjust to a life without horcruxes or dark lords, but when he returned to Hogwarts to finish his N.E.W.T.s along with everyone else, he didn’t expect to feel so useless. Maybe that's why he finds himself taking Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and pureblood wanker, on expeditions to make happy memories with the help of butterbeer and a disappearing cat.Or: the one where Draco can't conjure a Patronus because he doesn't have a happy memory, and Harry can't mind his own business. Also there is snogging.





	1. Revelio infirmatem

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a student, so there's a good chance updates will be sporadic, but I'm determined to finish this story and please do share your thoughts/ideas; I love feedback and it helps shape the story as I write.  
> Anyway, please enjoy!

_Revelio infirmatem:_ a charm which may be used to reveal weaknesses or gaps in your opponent’s Shield Charm

Miranda Goshawk _, Book of Spells_

 

“I must have misheard you,” Hermione said in a tone that told Harry she had most certainly _not_ misheard him. She set down her fork intensely—how she managed to make the act _intense_ Harry would never know—and fixed him with a look of profound primness.

Harry gulped.

“Do you mean to imply,” Hermione went on, each word dripping with displeasure, “that without a dark lord to defeat or horcruxes to hunt or dementors to escape, you find yourself _bored_?”

Well, when she put it like that he sounded like a right arse. “Merlin, Hermione, I didn’t mean it that way and you know it,” he said with a groan. He put his pumpkin juice back down in favour of scrubbing his hands through his hair, which was still littered with flower petals from that Hufflepuff first-year’s dreadful attempt at a gardening charm in the corridor.

“I sort of know what you mean though,” said Ron around a mouthful of shepherd’s pie. “I don’t remember studying this much in sixth year. And NEWTs are enough to drive anyone barmy, mate.”

“I’m not _barmy_ ,” Harry said hotly.

Hermione’s right eyebrow rose precariously. “Harry, we are sitting in a newly-restored Hogwarts, well on our way to illustrious careers, with no one asking us to save so much as a beehive from imminent doom and no one actively trying to murder us or the people we care about, and you’ve just spent a good five minutes whinging about how you miss the good old days of Death Eaters and Deathly Hallows.” She leaned towards him. “You’re barmy.”

Harry shut up after that, because she was right if he was honest with himself. He felt a little like those old veteran soldiers on the telly who sat in their rockers with glazed eyes waxing on about the scrapes they got into with the Germans or the Italians or whoever else they fought as though there was no greater thing in the world. Harry did not like the feeling one bit.

Maybe it was just in his nature now to be the sodding Chosen One, and he was just going to be stuck with this wretched need to _help_ for the rest of his life. In the absence of new dark lords to fight, he’d end up at the market pushing old ladies’ trolleys round for them and volunteering to be a test subject for experiments at St. Mungo’s, like he was some sort of hero for just wanting to be _useful_ somehow. They’d take pictures of him doing random acts of kindness to post in the _Prophet_ and he’d become the Boy Who Has a Saviour Complex and eventually he’d _Incendio_ himself out of sheer desperation for a problem to solve.

Of course, Hermione and Ron hadn’t quite twigged to Harry’s state of mind since the end of the war. Hermione had already accepted an offer from the Welsh Academy of Magick to join their investigative journalism program next year, and Ron was only back at Hogwarts because a) Hermione was there and shagging was not a long-distance activity and b) Auror training necessitated NEWTs, though in reality for Ron Weasley it was nothing more than a formality.

Both of his best friends had their futures sorted and their purposes were seemingly set, and though Harry knew—cringing at the thought—that the Aurors were falling over themselves to recruit him, and any higher school of magic would accept him, every career that had presented itself to him so far had made his stomach do a strange flip-and-curl movement that was ghastly beyond measure. Even the idea of professional Quidditch, which a year ago had seemed like his fantasy come to life, no longer held any appeal. He’d already lost his ability to be excited about a lot of things since the battle of Hogwarts, and he was not about to let Quidditch join the list. He’d rather just work at the Four Broomsticks forever and be a miserable sod with great hobbies.

“Are you gonna eat that?” asked Ron, pointing at Harry’s untouched pudding.

Harry barely had time to shake his head no before Ron was scarfing down the contents of the bowl.

“You have been keeping your promise, haven’t you, Harry?” asked Hermione. Her tone was pleasant but her eyes were narrowed a bit. When had Hermione Granger become the most terrifying person in the wizarding world?

“What prom—oh, yes,” Harry said hastily as Hermione began to frown. “Homework is sorted, don’t worry. I’ve kept up with it fine and I’ve already written that Potions essay for Thursday.”

Hermione nodded with a pleased smile. “I’m proud of you, Harry,” she said warmly.

Oddly, Harry felt a bit like he did when Mrs. Weasley called him her “son by magic” or when she made him a special cake on his birthday. Apparently snogging a Weasley had fine-tuned Hermione’s ability to make everyone around her feel infinitely more good and cherished. He couldn’t help ducking his head and flushing a little at her praise.

“Oi, Harry, didn’t you have that thing with Bill?” asked Ron, scooping out the last bits from the bowl.

Harry shot up from the bench. “Bugger, I forgot!” he yelled much louder than intended. A few third-years cast withering looks his way. “Hermione, why didn’t you remind me?” he hissed more quietly.

“I’m not a sodding Remembrall, Harry,” Hermione grumbled into her pumpkin juice, but Harry was already running out of the Great Hall, dinner forgotten.

Fortunately Bill Weasley’s office wasn’t far, and it only took Harry a few minutes of leaping up staircases and skidding around corners for him to reach the DADA classroom. He stopped to catch his breath and let his heart settle back into a reasonable rhythm before slipping into the empty, cavernous roomful of desks. If he was lucky, Bill wouldn’t rake him through the coals for his tardiness, but however much of a laidback bloke the eldest Weasley was at Christmas luncheon, he was the exact opposite when it came to teaching.

The room was dark and silent except for the occasional rumble or squeak from the various boxes and tanks and cages scattered about the room, which seemed a bit odd. Harry didn’t like to make himself out as a vain sort, but he’d rather thought when Bill asked to see him this evening that he’d have something interesting to teach him. Some fancy new bit of magic the others weren’t ready for or tips on his wand technique. But from the looks of it, given that Bill’s office was too small for curious creatures or flamboyant magical displays, they were just going to chat. _Ugh_.

Harry approached the office slowly, not looking forward to whatever set-down or pep-talk Bill had intended for him. McGonagall had apparently set him up as Harry’s personal big brother (which, granted, he already was after a fashion) and Bill had taken to doing alarming things such as greeting him in the corridor and calling on him in class. Apparently this was not to be the year Harry sulked his way into anonymity.

As he neared the office door, however, he was forced to pause out of sheer bewilderment when he heard an unmistakably haughty, sneering pureblood voice on the other side. Surely Draco Malfoy of all people wouldn’t be caught dead alone with a Weasley of his own accord? Voldemort may be dead and Rita Skeeter may be spearheading a cooking magazine, but some things never changed. Right?

Harry slid a little closer to the closed door. Perhaps Malfoy was telling Bill, in that snide, snooty tone he did so well, how unattractive and unfashionable and poor he was, which seemed to be the only way in which Malfoy knew to insult people. Bill would likely hex him for it, teaching post be damned, and Harry would enjoy it immensely.

From what he could tell though, no hexes were being exchanged. “I don’t see that that’s any of your business, Weasley,” said Malfoy. His tone was rather snooty, but he was doing a decent job of reining it in. “I’m perfectly capable of defending myself.”

“No one is questioning your ability to use defensive spells, Draco,” said Bill with extraordinary calm in the face of Malfoy’s disdain. “But you need this spell in your arsenal given the current state of things.”

Harry frowned. Bill made it sound like a third war was on its way.

“No one has spotted a Dementor from here to London since July,” Malfoy practically snarled. “The ministry’s been rounding them up like mad. They’re no threat anymore.” There was a strange little thread of pleading in his voice that made the hairs on Harry’s neck stand up in discomfort.

“And after you leave the country to rejoin your family?” asked Bill. “Your mother’s in Strasbourg, so I hear. How do you plan to protect yourself and her should a Dementor pop by to say hello?”

So this was a scolding then, Harry concluded silently. Malfoy’s inability to produce a Patronus was becoming a bit of a running joke among students. Ron had even speculated that his Patronus was something humiliating, like a ferret or a dung beetle, so he was just too ashamed to conjure it. But from the way Harry had caught Malfoy’s lip curling in frustration and sweat beading on his forehead, he really doubted it was a lack of effort that was causing the difficulty.

He strained to hear Malfoy’s response, but the words were too low for his ears to catch through the thick oak door.

“Regardless of your personal feelings on the matter, Patronus Charms will continue to be incorporated into NEWT levels until they are deemed no longer necessary,” said Bill. “I can’t give you a pass just because you’d rather place your faith in a Bat-Bogey Hex than a proper Patronus.”

“That’s not—” Malfoy’s voice sounded a little odd, like he was speaking through gritted teeth. “It’s not an issue of overconfidence.”

“So what is it an issue of?” asked Bill.

Utter silence. Harry could hear the Three-Spined Toad purring quietly in its tank across the classroom.

“Draco, you won’t pass your exams without this charm,” said Bill sternly. “I can’t help you unless I know what—”

“I don’t have a happy memory,” Malfoy interrupted, his voice sharp.

Harry blinked. Then stepped closer before he realised what he was doing, curiosity overpowering caution.

“I’m sorry?” Bill’s voice sounded every bit as bewildered as Harry felt.

Malfoy made a frustrated noise. “You need a powerful, happy memory to conjure a Patronus, yeah? Well, I haven’t got any of those. At least, none good enough for the charm’s purposes.” He said something else, but it was too low for Harry to hear.

Bill cleared his throat. “I’m sure that’s not true, Draco. Perhaps if we—”

“Forget it,” Malfoy snapped. “You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know.”

“Draco, wait—”

But before Harry had a chance to spring back from the door, whistle, look at the hippogriff skeleton by the window, or start conjuring cabbages—essentially anything to demonstrate he was not eavesdropping, _thank you very much_ —Malfoy burst through the door in a flurry of black robes and snobbery. Stormy grey eyes quickly met his, and Harry let out a huff of air he hadn’t known was in his lungs.

“Potter,” said Malfoy.

“Malfoy,” said Harry.

Malfoy left.

Harry scratched the back of his neck, blinking at the air where moments ago the blond, arrogant git had stood looking down his long, slender nose at him. The two of them still hadn’t figured out whether or not they were supposed to be maintaining their pre-Voldemort rivalry, but for the past two months they had managed a happy medium in which they aggressively ignored each other—the key word being _aggressive._ Harry supposed that eavesdropping on Malfoy’s tragic woes about spellcasting had the potential to upset that delicate balance.

“Harry, you out there?” Bill’s voice echoed out into the classroom now that the office door was open.

“Er, yeah, sorry, Professor,” said Harry. He walked in and shut the door behind him, doing his best to shake off all thoughts of Malfoys and Patronuses.

Bill sat in his dragonhide chair flicking his wand to return some books to the shelves that lined the walls. Harry cast a furtive look around, but thankfully Bill’s Kneazle Ezmira was nowhere to be found, which meant he would be able to leave without fur on his robes and claw marks on his hands.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Harry,” said Bill with a smile. The bear claw earring he wore flashed in the firelight.

“S’no problem,” said Harry, as though he hadn’t spent the better side of five minutes pressing his ear to the door like he was a bleeding spy for Rita Skeeter.

“Come on and sit down, mate,” said Bill, waving his hand. “I won’t bite,” he added.

“Har har,” Harry said dryly as he sat down.

Bill flicked his wand again, and a drawer in his desk squeaked open to allow a battered file to fly out and land with a smack in front of him. “Now, Harry,” said Bill, “I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, what with”—he searched for the right word—“everything, but the holidays will be here before you know it and we should really talk about the future.”

That flip-and-curl feeling was back. Where was a damned Kneazle when he needed one? “The future?” he asked blankly.

Bill sighed and opened Harry’s file, flipping through what was no doubt a very colourful academic record. “You’ve only got a few more months before you need to have some sort of plan for your life, Harry,” he said sternly. “We’ve knocked off Auror, Curse-Breaker, Unspeakable, potioneer, teacher, healer, Quidditch player, anything to do with law enforcement or policy, and you skived off that interview with the dragonologist last Tuesday, so I take it you’ve no interest in pursuing that thread.”

Harry sank a little deeper into his chair. Bill had a way of making his voice boom even when he was talking very quietly, and it did exactly as intended—made Harry feel utterly ashamed of himself, that is. “No, I don’t,” he said, hanging his head.

Bill cleared his throat. “Harry, I know Professor McGonagall talked to you about this a while ago,” he said hesitantly, “but I just want to say again that if you need help working through everything, you only have to ask.”

Harry roughed a hand through his hair and grimaced. “Thanks, I know,” he said. “I’m doing okay though. Just no clue what I want to do now that nobody’s after me to go chasing down Parselmouth gits.”

Bill’s mouth quirked in a crooked smile. “If you happen on any though, do feel free,” he said generously.

Harry smiled back, though he didn’t much feel like seeing the humour.

“Do you have any other career options in mind?” asked Bill.

Flip-and-curl. Flip-and-curl.

“Not really,” he said shortly.

“And you’re sure you want to steer clear of the Ministry?” asked Bill. “Even with Shacklebolt and his lot finally clearing out the rubbish?”

“I’m sure,” said Harry, nodding.

“Well, alright, then.” Bill gave in with a sigh. “Think on it this week and come see me next Thursday, same time, with three new career ideas. If you don’t,” he added as Harry opened his mouth to protest, “it’ll be twenty points from Gryffindor and an essay on the theory of paralytic spells.”

“Power is a corrupting influence,” Harry muttered under his breath, but feigned an innocent expression when Bill narrowed his eyes at him.

“Now off you go,” said Bill, rising to his feet. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”

Harry stood as well, taking his bag with him. “Tell Fleur I said hello."

He left the room before Bill could launch into sonnets about his brilliant, beautiful wife and what a marvel she was, as he was wont to do ever since she had announced she was pregnant. Ron and Hermione were likely already back in the Gryffindor common room, so that was where he headed, ducking into an alcove when he spotted Peeves nearby. Amidst so many changes and upheavals, Harry was bizarrely happy to find that Peeves had not been at all traumatised by the events of the battle of Hogwarts, and if anything he threw himself into his pranks with more gusto than ever before.

Harry listened as Peeves wandered away singing a rather disturbing song to himself about dungbombs, and when he was quite sure the poltergeist was gone, he slipped back out into the corridor and continued on his way. He was in a strange mood after his meeting with Bill, though he couldn’t decide if it was because of the flip-and-curl feeling that was winding his stomach in knots, or because of the revelation that apparently Malfoy didn’t have any memories happy or powerful enough for a Patronus Charm.

It made sense, when he thought about it. And think about it he did, all through three games of Exploding Snap with Ron and Neville, revision with Hermione, and a rowdy debate over the upcoming Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match with Ginny. He would catch himself recalling Malfoy’s sneering, posh voice in the middle of the conversation, and it took a great deal of effort to shake off the memory of the words _I don’t have a happy memory._

By the end of the night, Hermione was looking at him like he’d turned into a mandrake and Ron and Neville had trounced him so thoroughly in Exploding Snap that he might as well have not played at all. But even as Ginny threw up her hands in frustration when he failed to recognise the brilliance of her newly-devised game strategy (and it really was brilliant), he still couldn’t help turning over in his mind the knife-edge of pleading in Malfoy’s voice, like he couldn’t bear to have this vulnerability of his poked and prodded at by someone else. Which only made Harry want to poke and prod at it all the more.

“Or maybe I’ll go shack up with Victor Krum and switch my allegiance to the Tutshill Tornadoes,” Ron said loudly.

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Blimey, mate,” said Ron, shaking his head, “I thought we’d lost you there for a minute. You looked like you were halfway round the bend.”

“Sorry,” said Harry. “What were we talking about?” He shifted around on the sofa to face his friends more fully.

“The wedding this Christmas,” Ginny supplied helpfully from where she sat curled up in her chair by the fire.

“You are coming, aren’t you, Harry?” asked Hermione. “I know you wanted some time to yourself over the summer, but spending all that time in Grimmauld Place alone isn’t good for you, you know, especially around the holidays.”

“Not to mention, Mum would send a whole fleet of Howlers if you didn’t show,” added Ron, giving Harry a nudge with his arm.

“Yeah, I’ll be there, don’t worry,” said Harry, nodding with what he hoped was enthusiasm. The prospect of attending Percy Weasley’s wedding wasn’t thrilling, especially given how horribly the last Weasley wedding had gone, but Harry would rather eat troll bogeys than let down the Weasley family.

“Splendid,” said Hermione with a smile. She stood, closing _A History of Babylonian Runes_ and clutching it to her chest. “Well, I’m off to bed,” she added, casting a pointed look at Ron. Harry sensed a goodnight snog soon to be underway, and sure enough Ron sprang to his feet to follow her to the entrance to the girls’ dormitory.

That left Harry and Ginny alone. Harry swallowed hard and looked back at his old girlfriend, who appeared suddenly fascinated by the tapestry on a nearby wall. “So, er,” he began haltingly, “how are things?”

Ginny smirked at him. “What things do you mean?”

“Oh, you know”—Harry cast around frantically—“centaur rights, the current state of affairs in the Auror department, Cornish pixies—”

“Lavender’s doing great,” Ginny broke in with a grin. “She should be coming back next term.”

“Um,” said Harry.

“You great idiot,” she said fondly. “I know you’ve been dying to ask.”

“Not _dying_ ,” Harry grumbled. “Just a bit, y’know, curious.”

Ginny rolled her eyes at him. “About her medical progress or what we do when the mediwitches aren’t looking?”

Harry didn’t see a way to answer without taking the significant risk of saying something prat-like, so he kept his mouth shut. At least the image of his ex-girlfriend snogging Lavender Brown in the dark corners of St. Mungo’s was keeping thoughts of a certain blond arsewipe away.

“She’ll just have lots of scars to show off,” said Ginny with overt cheerfulness. “Otherwise she just needs to get used to all the bits and bobs of lycanthropy. On the other front,” she added, “you can tell Ron he needn’t worry about his sister shagging his old girlfriend yet. Mediwitches are damned observant creatures.”

Harry let out a noise that could only be termed a squawk and he hurriedly stumbled off the sofa. “Lovely talking to you, Ginny,” he said in a strangled voice. “I’m off to bed. Goodnight!”

Ginny’s laughter followed him as he fled the common room into the dormitory. She was just trying to break the ice, he knew—they couldn’t beat about the bush forever after all—but he wasn’t quite sure he was comfortable being privy to knowledge of Ginny’s relationship with anyone, especially Lavender Brown. There were some things that were better left unsaid, in Harry’s opinion.

Not that he begrudged her the apparent bliss she’d found while sitting at Lavender’s bedside for the past six months. Far from it, he thought to himself as he changed into his pyjamas. He’d been ashamed by how relieved he felt when Ginny was just as reluctant as he was to resume their relationship, and even more ashamed by how eagerly he agreed to put an end to it when she proposed the idea. Now that she found herself utterly besotted with Lavender, Harry didn’t feel quite so guilty for not being the same boy he was two years ago, the boy she’d been in love with.

That was the thing though. They all played at being their old selves, students with no more pressing worries than exams and the House Cup. But Harry could hear Ron moaning in his sleep some nights, saying the names of the people who’d died. When Ginny missed a meal, Harry knew she was in the second-floor girls’ lavatory, talking to Moaning Myrtle and staring blankly at her reflection in the row of mirrors above the sinks. He knew that once a week Hermione went down to Hogsmeade with Neville and Cho to meet with trauma Healers, and sometimes he caught her looking at the scar on her arm with an emptiness in her eyes that made his gut clench. Even Luna, who’d always seemed rather impervious to the carnage and violence they’d endured, spent more and more time with the thestrals, coming back quieter and less dreamy than usual.

The war had damaged them all in small, quiet ways, Harry mused as he slid under his covers. Somehow, though, it hadn’t occurred to him until today that someone like Malfoy might have been damaged too.


	2. Partis temporus

_Partis temporus:_ a spell which creates a temporary gap in magical barriers, excluding those barriers which protect a certain family or territory

Gatticus Thistlefoot, _Standard Spells for the Sorcerer’s Safety_

 

The next morning saw Hermione in a state of near panic. Harry could hear her voice carrying up all the way to the boys’ dormitory, and when he stumbled out into the common room, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, she immediately turned on him.

“Do you know where he is?” she demanded.

“Good morning to you too, Hermione,” Harry yawned.

“I’m serious, Harry!” said Hermione, real tears in her eyes. “Crookshanks is missing!”

Ron patted her shoulder. “I’m sure he’s somewhere nearby, Hermione,” he reassured her. His eyes, when they met Harry’s, indicated that he was not nearly as put out by Crookshanks’ disappearance as he was pretending to be. Harry didn’t blame him; that cat was the devil incarnate.

Hermione gave a heaving sob. “But what if one of those awful second-years took him?” she fretted, sniffling. “You know how he likes to leave messes on people’s beds occasionally, but he doesn’t mean anything by it, and it’s not his fault he was never properly trained. But I’ve seen them giving him nasty looks sometimes.” She let out a wail and deflated into a nearby chair. “What if they’ve drowned him or transfigured him into a teacup?”

Ron let out a snort that he valiantly attempted to mask behind a gasp of horror.

“Let me go get my map, okay, Hermione?” said Harry soothingly. “We’ll look for him on there, and if he’s slunk off anywhere or if someone’s taken him, we’ll know exactly where to go.”

“Bloody hell, it shows cats too?” asked Ron.

“Well, if you can call Mrs. Norris a cat,” Harry replied, shrugging.

Two minutes later they were gathered round a stumpy table by the window, pouring over the map for any sign of Crookshanks. Judging by Harry’s grumbling stomach and the deserted common room, they had missed breakfast, but he was not foolish enough to bring this up.

“You’ve got to be joking,” said Ron at Harry’s shoulder.

“What—” Harry started to ask, but Ron was already pointing.

“That utter and complete _prat!_ ” Hermione cried. “What would _he_ want with poor old Crookshanks?”

“Probably _Crucio_ the hairy beast,” said Ron, and then his eyes widened in alarm when he realised he’d spoken aloud. Hermione turned to him with a look of such emphatic distress that Harry was sure Ron wouldn’t be forgiven for suggesting the idea for quite some time.

“We’re going down there,” Hermione said determinedly.

“To the Slytherin boys’ dormitory?” Ron balked. “Are you mad? We’d be hexed halfway to Hungary.”

Hermione set her jaw and began folding the map. “Either you’re coming with me to collect him or I’ll go by myself, hexes or no. I’ll not leave him there to be tortured and tormented by—by a sadistic, blood-purist _wanker._ ” Her voice caught on a sob.

“Alright, alright,” said Harry, glaring at Ron. “We’ll all go. We can just ask someone going in to fetch him for us since we don’t know the password.”

“S’probably something like _Long live Voldemort_ ,” Ron muttered.

Harry wisely chose not to respond.

* * *

They caught Blaise Zabini just as he was about to step through the stone passageway into the Slytherin common room. As usual, he somehow managed to make his school uniform look more pristine and high-fashion than everyone else’s, though Harry reluctantly noticed that he had bags under his eyes and he didn’t walk with his usual flare.

“Oi, Zabini!” Ron called out.

“Well-spotted, Weasley,” said Blaise, but there was no real gusto behind the snipe.

“Could you please fetch Draco?” Hermione asked with admirable restraint. Harry glanced down to find her hands clenched into shaky fists.

“Why?” asked Blaise. “Want to drag him into the Great Hall by his ear or cast a hemorrhoid hex on him in front of your Gryffindor friends?”

Harry was too flabbergasted by the realisation that hemorrhoid hexes existed to be offended by the accusation in Blaise’s voice, as though they were the ones who’d spent six years being pompous, privileged bullies.

“No hexing or humiliation,” said Hermione through gritted teeth. “We just need to speak with him.” Her right eyebrow lifted in a way that Harry knew from experience meant she was six seconds away from casting some right foul spells at whoever was blocking her path.

Blaise seemed to recognise this too and he gave a short nod. “I’ll let him know you’re here,” he said before ducking into the passageway.

They waited for what couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but Hermione’s nerves were infectious. Harry and Ron took turns squeezing her shoulders and trying their best to think of comforting things to say, but her eyes stayed fixed on the spot of wall that hid the passageway to the Slytherin dungeons. Harry knew that Hermione wasn’t really worried that Malfoy had hurt Crookshanks. After all, he’d be a complete fool to do anything remotely out of line given the extraordinary leniency he’d been shown by the Ministry, and Harry doubted torturing animals was a huge hobby of Malfoy’s, no matter how much of a git he was.

Hermione knew that just as well as Harry did. But since the battle, when she’d had to spend months with her parents restoring their memories bit by bit and trying to make them understand why she’d had to make them forget her, Crookshanks had been a huge help. He was an arsehole of a cat, but he loved Hermione to pieces, and she’d grown to depend on him in a way she hadn’t in years before. That ridiculous cat was probably the only thing that kept her sane some days.

Harry met Ron’s eyes, and knew that Ron was thinking the same thing. “I’m sure he just slipped out,” Ron assured her. “He’s probably gone to beat Malfoy to a pulp, is all.”

Hermione gave him a wobbly smile and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Probably,” she murmured. “I’m just a little overprotective of him, I suppose.” Her grip tightened on Harry’s hand before she added quietly, “I need him.”

Before Harry could reply, the wall was opening to reveal a rumpled Malfoy wearing black silk pyjamas that were, naturally, embroidered with his bloody initials. (Harry deserved a medal for winning the battle that waged within him to comment on the ridiculously ornate monogram.) He wore a sour expression as he stepped into the corridor, eyeing Harry with particular condescension. In his arms, purring loudly and energetically, was Crookshanks.

“Granger,” Malfoy greeted Hermione, nodding. “I presume you’re here for your”—Malfoy wrinkled his nose skeptically—“ _cat_.”

Hermione’s jaw clenched and she took a step forward. “And how exactly did you come to have him?” she asked frostily.

Crookshanks perked his ears at the sound of her voice, and in an instant he had slipped out of Malfoy’s grasp and wound himself around Hermione’s legs, rubbing his great, squashed head against her calves. She scooped him up into her arms and held him close, burying her face in his orange fur for a moment before lifting her head to pin Malfoy with an expectant expression.

“I didn’t abduct him, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Malfoy, rolling his eyes. “The ugly old thing must have slipped through the passage when a student wasn’t looking and decided my pillow looked like a good place for a kip.”

“He’s not ugly—” Hermione started.

“Why would he pick you?” asked Ron. He immediately looked like he regretted the question.

Malfoy drew up to his full height, which wasn’t exactly exceptional, but it did make him look like even more of a pretentious tit than usual. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Ron scratched the back of his neck, looking supremely uncomfortable. “I mean, he’s half-Kneazle, isn’t he? He’s always been good at sussing out the good sorts from the bad…” He trailed off when he saw Harry and Hermione’s twin expressions of dismay.

“So I’m a bad sort then,” Malfoy said quietly. It was not a question.

Harry replayed the memory of Malfoy’s aristocratic, sneering voice brandishing the words _I don’t have a happy memory_ like they were a sword instead of a shield. He wondered if one really qualified as a bad sort if they’d never known another way to be. He wondered if one could be a good sort without any happy memories to help them along.

“Right,” said Malfoy, nodding once. “Now that I’m free of the beast, I’ll be on my way. And if he shows up again, I’ll be sure to send him straight up to Gryffindor Tower.”

Hermione cleared her throat, looking a little embarrassed. “Thank you,” she said. She hesitated. “And Ron didn’t mean—”

But Malfoy was already gone.

“Well done, Ron,” said Harry dryly, thumping his friend on the back.

“Yeah, alright, alright,” Ron grumbled. “So sorry for hurting the little Death Eater’s feelings.”

“Ron!” Hermione hissed.

“Let’s go to the kitchens,” said Harry with a sigh. He was still in his checkered pyjama bottoms and old Cannons t-shirt and he felt decidedly underdressed wandering about the castle without his school robes. “Maybe Winky can find us some toast and jam or something.”

They were halfway to the kitchens when Hermione stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh, no,” she moaned. “I missed Ancient Runes.”

“Well, you’re the one who insisted on coming down here to save your cat from Salazar’s lair,” Ron teased her.

“Professor Babbling probably thinks you’ve been kidnapped,” Harry added helpfully.

“Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it now,” Hermione said with a sigh. She scratched behind Crookshanks’ ears, which appeared to make him sublimely happy. “I’ll have to ask Luna for her notes and hope they’re not too difficult to decipher.”

Harry frowned. “Wait a minute. Isn’t Malfoy taking Ancient Runes? Why was he still in his dormitory?”

Ron shrugged. “Maybe he’s sick,” he said.

“I’m sure he has a good reason,” said Hermione. “He never misses class.”

Harry nodded but didn’t reply as they rounded the corner and caught sight of the painting of the bowl of fruit that marked the entry to the kitchens. He couldn’t quite figure out why he was so curious about Malfoy, but something itched at the back of his mind the more he dwelled on the memories of his pitiful attempts at a Patronus, the haunted look in his eyes as Harry wrenched the wands out of his hands, the dark circles under his eyes when he stepped out of the Slytherin passageway, fingers curled in Crookshanks’ shaggy fur.

Ron stepped up and tickled the pear in the painting until it obediently bloomed into a doorknob. As soon as they stepped inside, they were greeted by the smell of frying bacon and kippers and fresh rolls. At first the massive room appeared empty, with large spoons stirring the contents of the pots and pans with the help of magic, but then Harry heard a thud from by the pantry.

“Winky is being very sorry, sirs and miss,” squeaked a familiar voice from behind a towering pile of napkins. Winky’s wrinkled face surfaced atop the mountain of snowy white linens. “Winky _told_ Pipsy to be leaving with the others before Harry Potter and his friends arrived, but Pipsy is being a very bad elf, a very bad elf indeed—”

Before Harry had the chance to greet Winky properly or ask who Pipsy was, a small, wide-eyed elf appeared from behind an enormous sack of potatoes wearing what looked to be a very tiny Gryffindor scarf over her Hogwarts tea towel and thick purple-and-green socks.

“Hermione Granger and sirs must not be listening to that old Winky!” the little elf wailed with considerable drama. “Pipsy is only wanting to shake the hand of Hermione Granger and then she will be going, sirs and miss! Pipsy is not a bad elf, not at all!”

“You is wanting to shake a witch’s hand?” Winky nearly dropped the massive pile of linens, so shocked was she by the notion. “Is you wanting to hold her wand next, silly elf?”

“I’d be happy to shake hands with you,” Hermione said warmly.

Pipsy blinked round, golfball-sized grey eyes at the three of them, seeming frozen in place, and then in a flurry of movement she was right in front of them, looking up at Hermione with something like reverence.

“I is being allowed to shake your hand, miss?” she asked, fingers clasped as though in prayer.

“Of course,” said Hermione. “But why do you want to shake my hand?”

“Oh, miss!” Pipsy sighed. “Pipsy is remembering all your kindness to Dobby, and how you was working so hard for house-elves to have clothes, and how you was fighting You-Know-Who to save Hogwarts.” She let out a great sob. “Pipsy is being so grateful, miss, for when the house-elves was fighting in the battle, ‘twas you who was casting the spell that saved my father from death.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in recognition. “That was you!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, miss,” Pipsy squeaked tearfully. “So I is coming to shake your hand and thank you and sirs for your bravery.”

Pipsy’s words made Hermione blush to the roots of her hair, and she shifted a napping Crookshanks to one arm so she could lean down and offer her hand. “I would gladly do it again, Pipsy,” said Hermione. She sounded like she might cry, and Harry wondered to himself exactly how much emotion and drama could be packed into one Thursday morning. He hadn’t been quite prepared to deal with it all, and he certainly didn’t feel at all like heroic, like Pipsy seemed to think of them all, in his tattered pyjamas and with his hair still standing up on one side.

Pipsy reached out a spindly arm and took Hermione’s hand in her own, eyes growing impossibly wider as she carefully shook it up and down once, twice, three times. From behind the linen pile, Winky let out a high-pitched harrumphing noise.

“Pipsy will be going now, sirs and miss,” Pipsy chirped when she finally drew her tiny hand away, looking at it as if it had been transfigured into solid gold. “Oh, to be meeting Hermione Granger—Pipsy is a very lucky elf!”

Hermione didn’t seem to know what to say, but from the way her chin wobbled ever so slightly Harry could tell she was very moved. Beside him, Ron puffed up with pride at the recognition of his girlfriend’s bravery. Hermione looked like she wanted to burst into tears or hug Pipsy or say something kind, but before she could do any of it Pipsy disappeared with a _crack._

Winky’s head emerged above the linens she was rapidly working her way through folding. “Sirs and miss may be helping themselves to whatever they like from the table,” she said. “I is leaving sirs and miss to talk now.”

“Winky, you don’t have to leave—” Harry began, but Winky was already gone.

“Are those _sausages?_ ” asked Ron with something of a moan in his voice. He was halfway across the room in seconds, taking a seat at one of the long tables where a little tray of food at been laid out, laden with bacon, eggs, kippers, rolls, sausages, tattie scones, Yorkshire pudding, and a pot of steaming hot tea. Apparently the elves had somehow known they were coming.

The three of them piled their plates high, unaccustomed to missing their first meal, and Harry set about pouring them all a cup of tea.

“What exactly did you do for Pipsy, Hermione?” asked Ron, spearing a sausage with relish.

“Oh, it was nothing really,” said Hermione, clearly attempting to sound nonchalant. “It was after Harry came back from the forest. The house-elves were fighting and one of them was injured and he was lying by some rubble. I saw an Acromantula coming straight for him so I cursed it and then sent it through a window. I suppose the elf was Pipsy’s father.”

“Blimey,” said Ron.

“Yeah, blimey,” agreed Harry. He put down the tea and set about buttering his roll. He rather wished Pipsy was still there. She had provided quite a good distraction from Malfoy and his memories.

Hermione blushed but pursed her lips as though trying to seem unaffected. “You were right though, Ron,” she said, lifting up a forkful of eggs. “Earlier, I mean.”

“About what?” asked Ron.

“It’s curious that Crookshanks liked Malfoy enough to seek him out,” she mused, “and even more curious that he let Malfoy hold him. Crookshanks hardly even lets you do that, Harry.”

“Maybe Malfoy Confunded him,” said Ron.

Hermione rolled her eyes but then frowned again. “Harry,” she said, “what exactly are you doing?”

“What?” Harry looked down and realised he was about to dip his sausage into his tea. He quickly veered his hand in the opposite direction and took a bite, avoiding his friends’ eyes.

“We’ve got about forty minutes left before Defence,” Ron said after a moment, clearly deciding it was best not to question Harry. He bit off a piece of bacon. “D’you reckon Bill will have us practising those bloody anti-apparition spells again? They’re a right nuisance when your partner’s Ernie MacMillan.”

“No, the Patronus Charm is more likely,” said Hermione, “or maybe some work on nonverbal spells.” She peered at Harry over the edge of her cup of tea. “Speaking of Bill,” she added, “how did the meeting go last night?”

Harry stared determinedly at his half-empty plate and began attacking his food with renewed relish. “Oh, you know,” he said. “It was just another career meeting. Bill wants me to have three new job ideas by next Thursday.”

“I still think you should go for Auror training, mate,” said Ron. “If you don’t like it after a few years you can always find something else. I reckon anyone would hire the hero of the wizarding world.”

Harry swallowed hard. “Not happening, Ron,” he said shortly. “And anyway, I’m through catching dark wizards. You’re more cut out for it than I am.”

“Rubbish,” said Ron, but he looked pleased by the compliment.

“We can go to the library later,” said Hermione. “Have a look through the books on magical careers and see if anything strikes your fancy.” She chewed a scone thoughtfully. “I’m glad Bill’s working with you though, Harry. He really just wants us all to do well.”

“I never would’ve thought he’d give up being a Curse-Breaker,” said Ron, gulping down his tea. “Bill loves all those old tombs and sarcophagi more than anything. But he doesn’t make a half-bad teacher either.”

Hermione nudged a curious Crookshanks away from her kippers. “I think he’s doing a marvelous job,” she said. “Granted, we do have a rather low bar for Defence teachers given the lot we’ve had, but he’s teaching an entirely re-designed N.E.W.T. curriculum to students who have completely different skill levels. And we’re not even behind yet!” She shook her head in amazement.

“We will be soon if those Slytherin tossers don’t start doing their bloody homework,” Ron grumbled. “All the Gryffindors are old hats at corporeal Patronuses and none of them can get any further than the wand movements.”

Hermione hummed in agreement while Harry stared at his pudding, wondering if now was the time to share what he’d overheard. “I mean, it makes sense," she said. "There’s a reason McGonagall had the seventh-years repeat the year. They were learning how to _Crucio_ first-years instead of practise defensive spells. Meanwhile everyone else was fighting to stay alive.”

“D’you reckon they need tutors or something?” Ron asked, stirring more sugar into his tea.

“Maybe.” Hermione pursed her lips. “I suspect they’re just not altogether happy about being taught defensive magic.”

Happy. _No,_ Harry thought to himself, _they probably weren’t that._

There was nothing for it, he decided grimly. He had to tell them. It would eat him alive if he didn’t, and anyway, there was very little they didn’t tell each other anymore. He already felt guilty for keeping it from them.

“Er,” he began. Ron raised a questioning eyebrow at him as he bit into a roll. Harry tried again. “Actually, I think there might be another reason.”

“Reason for what?” Hermione asked.

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, already half-regretting bringing it up. “Why the Slytherins can’t cast Patronus Charms,” he said. He frowned and then added, “Or at least why Malfoy can’t.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Ron.

Harry hesitated. Malfoy would doubtless curse him into oblivion, nevermind his parole, if he knew that his great secret was about to be revealed to the rest of the Golden Trio. But Harry had to tell someone or he’d go stark raving mad from sheer confusion. And it wasn’t as though Hermione or Ron would tell anyone. The thought should have eased his mind, but an itching, restless feeling continued to gnaw at his insides.

He took a deep breath. “Malfoy doesn’t have a happy memory,” he said.

“He doesn’t—what d’you mean?” Ron set down his fork on an empty plate and looked at Harry.

Harry felt himself flushing for reasons unknown as he took a sip of tea, feeling his friends’ eyes on him. “I mean, he doesn’t have a memory that’s happy and powerful enough to conjure a Patronus. That’s why he’s so behind in class.”

“How can he not have any happy memories?” Hermione asked, crossing her arms. “He spent most of his life being pampered and coddled beyond reason and being told he was a marvel just for having magic blood. Why, during our first year he must’ve gotten care packages from his mum every other day!”

Harry wasn’t sure if care packages were quite the thing for conjuring Patronuses, but he saw her point. “I’m not really sure about the particulars,” he said, “but he said it himself: he doesn’t have a memory good enough to cast a Patronus.”

“What do you mean, he said it himself?” Hermione asked, wide-eyed. “Did you have some sort of heart-to-heart with him about it?”

Harry grimaced. “Of course not. I overheard him talking about it with Bill.”

“Wait, Bill knows about it?” Ron asked. He looked ever-so-slightly betrayed.

Harry nodded. “He wanted to help, but Malfoy didn’t seem too eager to admit there’s a problem.”

Hermione shook her head. “I could almost feel sorry for him,” she said. Harry and Ron both blinked at her and she shrugged. “If it’s true, and he doesn’t have a good enough memory, just think what his life must’ve been like.” She made a face. “Doesn’t make him less of an arse, but at least it means he didn’t find being a Death Eater all that fun.”

Harry thought about that for a moment. The trials over the summer had brought to light a whole host of truths Harry hadn’t been prepared for, but chief among them was the realisation that there had been very few Death Eaters who truly believed in Voldemort’s cause, and even fewer who would have died for it. Harry had entered the courtroom expecting to encounter the vile blood-purist bigotry that had nearly destroyed the entire wizarding world; what he found instead was fear. He remembered sitting up with Ron and Hermione for the first few nights of the trials, drinking Firewhiskey and staring at the wood grain patterns on the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place. He remembered how they spoke in hoarse voices of the confessions of Death Eaters—dirty, shackled, wild-eyed followers who were so profoundly terrified of losing their place at the top of the wizarding world that they were nonsensical, spraying spittle all over themselves as they fought and pleaded and screamed that they had done nothing wrong.

Draco Malfoy hadn’t done that. He’d not said a word when accusations were levelled at him, staring at the chains on his grimy hands and feet numbly. Harry remembered watching him from his seat and seeing the arrogant, pointy 11-year-old twit in Madam Malkin’s, imagining the shackles hanging off his bony, pale wrists as Madam Malkin took his measurements and he drawled on about Quidditch and Muggle-borns. Malfoy had spent the entire time looking down, looking defeated, and it probably should’ve satisfied Harry, but Harry had just felt tired. Tired and sorry and a little annoyed that after devoting seven years to being a bigoted, bullying bastard, Malfoy couldn’t seem to be arsed anymore.

Ron nicked one of the kippers off Hermione’s plate and she pelted a roll at him in response. “Here’s the thing though,” said Ron. “If Malfoy doesn’t have a memory, then no matter how hard he tries he’ll never get the spell. So what exactly is Bill supposed to do?”

Hermione chewed on her last bit of scone thoughtfully. “Maybe some Pepper-Up would amplify the effects of a less powerful memory. Or he could try Felix Felicis or maybe a Cheering Charm. Even a good love potion might do the trick if he reacts properly and he’s in a controlled environment.” She set her empty plate on top of Ron’s. “I’m sure Madam Pomfrey or one of the Healers at St. Mungo’s would have some ideas at least. I doubt he’d want advice from us anyway.”

Harry stared into the little bit of tea left at the bottom of his cup. His heart was thumping faster than it should, and his mouth was dry with a quiet anger that he hadn’t known was there before. No, Malfoy wouldn’t want advice from them, from _Harry._ They’d bent over backwards to save his snivelling arse, to offer him an olive branch, to give him a chance to be a decent bloody person and live a full life. And the git couldn’t even be bothered to hold up his end of the deal.

“Fucking prat,” said Harry.

“What?” Ron and Hermione gaped at him in unison.

Harry stood and started walking.

“Harry, where are you going?” asked Ron.

“We’ve got class in ten minutes, Harry!” said Hermione.

“Tell Bill I’ve got somewhere to be,” he told them, and in the next moment the fruit bowl painting had swung open to let him out. Vaguely, he thought he heard the pear laughing.


	3. Petitio ingressus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you thought I'd abandoned this story, didn't you? Lolol, as if. I do apologise terribly for the wait though. What with uni and working on the Serious Business Novel™ I haven't been able to devote much time to this fic, but don't worry! I will keep writing it and updating as quickly as possible! In the meantime, please enjoy the chapter it took me four months to write lol.

_Petitio ingressus:_ the Door-Knocker Charm, as it is colloquially known, was particularly popular in medieval times, and is used to request admittance to houses protected by magic and other means

Corpedica Wadge, _Gnomes and Homes: Keeping House for the Wand-and-Wine Wife_

 

The problem was, Astoria Greengrass was not interested in letting Harry in. She stood in her freshly-pressed robes, piles of mahogany hair pinned into a neat chignon, twirling her wand around her fingers and looking at him with open suspicion.

“I’m meant to believe,” she said slowly, “that you suddenly fancy having a tête-à-tête with Draco? Sans hexing?”

Harry looked behind her at the open passageway, feeling something akin to despair. “That’s about the gist, yes,” he said.

“No non-Slytherin has entered the dungeons for centuries, you know,” she informed him gravely. “But I suppose the Chosen One would be above such mundane rules.” Her violet eyes cast a dubious glance at his faded and stained Cannons t-shirt and the rip at the hem of his pyjama bottoms.

“Then ask him to come out here,” Harry said through gritted teeth, toes curling in his dragon slippers. The slippers let out a sleepy little hiss of fire, forcing Astoria to step back.

“And what makes you think he’d do that?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. The wand-twirling had stopped.

“Well, considering he did it less than an hour ago,” Harry half-growled. He ran a hand through his hair, not caring that it would probably make him look even more ridiculous than he already did. “Look,” he said, “could you please just tell Malfoy I’ll be waiting for him round the corner by the statue of Dolstad the Dastardly? If I don’t see him in the next ten minutes I’ll take it for the brush-off it is and be on my way and I’ll never darken Salazar’s doorstep again.” He tried not to glower at her, but she was making it bloody difficult.

She pursed her lips at him for a moment and then nodded. “Fine,” she said. “But if you so much as cast a Dusting Charm in his direction, you’ll find a wand pointed directly at that scar of yours, alright?”

Harry rolled his eyes but nodded and watched as she disappeared into the stone wall. Weird how all of Slytherin House seemed to think it was Malfoy who needed protecting from Harry instead of the other way around.

He’d been leaning against the wall next to Dolstad’s statue conjuring butterflies for exactly ten minutes when Malfoy rounded the corner looking like he’d just eaten a dead ferret. He’d changed out of his black silk pyjamas at some point, exchanging them for a thin black jumper and a pair of grey trousers that, combined, probably cost the contents of Harry’s vault in Gringotts. The design wasn’t exactly Muggle, but it didn’t scream illustrious pureblood wizard either, and it definitely wasn’t the school robes that they were both supposed to be wearing.

“Would you like me to strike a pose or are you going to tell me why I’ve been summoned?” Malfoy asked. One eyebrow arched in a way that made Harry want to do violence.

Instead he hurriedly met Malfoy’s eyes, attempting to convey silently that he had most certainly not been staring at Malfoy’s _legs_ of all things. “I needed to talk to you,” he said.

The eyebrow, impossibly, rose higher. “My, Potter, how little you must think of me if you suppose that I can’t make even the smallest leaps of logic.” Malfoy rolled his eyes and batted away one of the conjured butterflies flittering around his shoulder. “Obviously you want to talk to me about _something,_ you dolt. So what is it? And do be quick, I was in the middle of something.”

Harry couldn’t help himself. “The middle of what?”

“Devising a secret weapon to summon the Dark Lord from his grave and smite down all of the Muggle-borns and Hufflepuffs in Britain.” Malfoy scowled at Harry. “I was reading a Quidditch magazine.”

Harry scowled back. He’d nearly forgotten—given how civilly they’d managed to despise each other for the past two months—what a complete and utter shit Malfoy was. “Come with me,” he managed to grate out before turning and stalking down the corridor.

To his surprise, Malfoy followed after making only two snide comments about Harry liking to give orders, and they soon came across an empty room which looked to have been a classroom at one point several centuries ago. Now, however, it was the home of a very disgruntled family of Caterwauling Canaries who yowled at them with relish before diving into their roomy nest under a cupboard.

Harry locked the door with a wave of his wand just as Malfoy turned to face him. “Now, do kindly tell me what you’re on about, Potter,” he drawled, but he looked distinctly uncomfortable standing alone in a dusty, abandoned room with the Chosen One.

 _Good,_ Harry thought. He should be uncomfortable.

“You’re a prat,” Harry informed him.

Malfoy blinked at him. “So this is a social visit then?”

Harry huffed. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was planning to do now that he had Malfoy cornered, but casting a Pimple Jinx on him was not it. “You’re a prat,” he repeated, because it summed up his feelings rather nicely.

“You said that,” said Malfoy. He glanced over Harry’s shoulder at the door, looking a little less smug and snooty, but only a little.

“My friends and I risked our necks to save your arse,” Harry said in a voice that sounded much too thundery and harsh to be his own. “You do realise that, don’t you?”

Malfoy flushed a deep red and his grey eyes narrowed. “You arrogant little—” He pressed his lips together. “Of course I realise that, you oaf. Have you come to collect payment on my debt to you or something?”

“What?” Harry stared at him. “What the fuck is that supposed to—” He shook his head, bewildered. “You don’t _owe_ me anything, Malfoy.”

“Don’t I?” Malfoy asked sharply. “You save my life, and Goyle’s, despite the fact that we’d just tried to capture you and turn you over to the Dark Lord. Then, as if that weren’t enough, you testify at my trial and beg and pout and say pretty please, will they let ickle wickle Draco have a chance, and now I have to live with the fact that I owe my life and freedom twice over to Harry Do-Good Potter.” He ended his rant a little out of breath, looking at Harry with his mouth twisting like he was in pain.

Harry looked at him for a moment, thinking very hard. “Alright then,” he said finally. “Let’s say you owe me.”

Malfoy’s shoulders slumped a little bit, as though having Harry agree with him had taken the wind from his sails. He didn’t meet Harry’s eyes again, and Harry wasn’t sure what to make of it. Malfoy usually had no problem looking down his nose directly at Harry and making it clear how very far beneath him he was and always would be. Now that he wasn’t doing just that, Harry found himself a bit thrown off.

“I didn’t do any of that to humble you or whatever rubbish you might think,” Harry blurted out. “I’m just not enough of an arse to leave a bloke to burn to death or rot in Azkaban if I know I can help.”

“Saint Potter,” Malfoy sneered. He was looking down his nose at Harry properly now, and Harry was relieved to have that odd, vulnerable Malfoy from a few moments ago gone. It let him get good and angry again, like he’d been when he’d left the kitchens.

“But maybe I should’ve left you there, eh?” Harry snapped. “Since you clearly don’t intend on repaying your debt to me or whatever the hell you want to call it.”

“What are you—”

Harry cut him off. “I got you a bloody good deal, Malfoy, a fucking bloody good deal. No time in Azkaban, parole for only two years, counselling and rehabilitation paid for by the bleeding Ministry, and permission to return to Hogwarts and repeat the year despite the fact that you and your lot tried to burn the fucking place down six months ago.”

“I know, you shit!” Malfoy yelled. “What do you want me to do? Write you a sonnet? Buy you a hippogriff? Get down and suck your cock? Exactly what is it that you want from me?”

“I want you to move the fuck on!” Harry yelled back.

Malfoy’s eyes were glittering and his hands were clenched at his sides as though he’d like nothing more than to curse him into oblivion, but his wand was nowhere to be seen, thank Merlin. Now that Harry thought about it, he wasn’t actually sure if Malfoy had brought his wand to begin with.

“I got you a second chance, Malfoy,” Harry said, forcing himself not to shout the words, “and you’re bollocksing the whole thing up from start to finish.”

“And pray tell, how am I doing that?” Malfoy nearly snarled.

Harry couldn’t quite put it into words if he was honest. He just knew that the thought of Malfoy not being able to conjure a Patronus, not having a memory happy enough to fuel it, angered him beyond reason. The war was over. People had died; _Harry_ had died. Everyone had made so many sacrifices and even Malfoy in the end had played a little part in getting Harry to the finish line. Shouldn’t all that have been enough? Shouldn’t they be doing their bloody hardest to leave every bit of it behind them? And yet Malfoy had had six months after the end of the war to set on a new path, to make _happy memories,_ and he’d not done a single thing to go about starting the task.

Harry couldn’t explain this though, not to Malfoy, or to anyone really. None of his friends, not even Hermione and Ron, would understand why he cared so much about rehabilitating Death Eaters, especially Malfoy, and he couldn’t very well ask them to when he didn’t understand it himself.

Malfoy scowled. “Fine, then, Potter,” he huffed. “I’ll leave you to your brooding.”

He brushed past Harry and was nearly to the door when Harry had the sense to say something. “You’re supposed to be happy,” he told Malfoy’s back. He’d not realised that he was going to say it, and he didn’t know why it was so important, but it was also true. Malfoy was supposed to be happy. He may not like the tosser, but he hadn’t spent a straight four hours testifying on his behalf and being questioned by the Wizengamot just to see Malfoy sulk his efforts away.

Malfoy turned halfway, just enough to jut out his pointed chin and glare at Harry with flinty eyes. “I hesitate to ask,” he drawled, “why, for one, you seem so concerned for my emotional well-being, and why, in addition, you are implying that I am _un_ happy.”

“Because you are, you complete arse,” Harry said, waving his hands in exasperation. “How could you possibly be happy without any happy memories?” Shit. His mouth snapped shut, but it was too late.

Malfoy’s expression went icy-smooth and blank. “I beg your pardon?”

“You know what I'm talking about, Malfoy,” said Harry. “You can't conjure a Patronus.”

“It's known to be an extremely difficult charm, Potter. You can't expect all of us to have left the womb slaying basilisks and destroying horcruxes.”

Harry pointedly ignored the jibe. “I already heard you admit it to Bill, so you might as well save your breath.”

Malfoy’s head snapped up. “You—how could you—” His eyes widened in realisation and he quickly turned away, his shoulders hunched under his black jumper in a decidedly un-Malfoy-like way. “I don’t know what it is you think you understand about my memories,” he finally said, “but I assure you that I am, as you say, ‘moving the fuck on,’ and you have no business knowing any more than that.”

With that he was out the door before Harry could so much as call him a pillock.

A stray butterfly fluttered round and round his head, wings brushing his ear. He vanished it with a sigh.

* * *

Professor Flitwick didn’t seem to notice Harry slipping into the Charms classroom fifteen minutes late the next day. Harry suspected it was because of the massive explosion that had just occurred.

“Oh, that was marvelous, Miss Finnigan!” cried Professor Flitwick. “Simply marvelous!”

A sandy-haired first-year with a heavy layer of soot covering her from head to toe offered a beaming smile, first to the professor and then to her cousin Seamus.

“Didn't I tell you, Professor?” Seamus crowed, leaning over his desk to tousle little Maeve Finnigan’s hair. “She's a natural!”

“So she is!” Flitwick agreed, nodding so enthusiastically he had to fling his arms out for balance as the tower of books he was standing on wobbled threateningly.

Harry slid silently into the seat next to Ron, his wand, quill, and parchment already whisked out of his bag so as to look as innocent and timely as possible.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Potter,” said Professor Flitwick.

Harry sank a little in his seat and heard Ron muffling a snicker beside him. “Yes, Professor?” he said.

“Young Miss Finnigan here was demonstrating a particularly dazzling fire-folding charm that she learned from her mother, who happens to head the Ministry’s outstanding T.E.A. division.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at Ron. “T.E.A.?” he whispered.

“Terrifying Explosives and Artillery,” Ron explained under his breath. “They make up all the wicked offensive spells that the Aurors use in combat.”

Harry considered the tiny Maeve Finnigan with her neat braids and Slytherin robes and soot-streaked face. She didn’t look like she knew how to blow up a building. But then, neither did Seamus.

“Brilliant,” he said.

“Thank you so much, my dear,” said the professor, “for that sensational bit of charmwork. Now, Mr. Finnigan, if you would please escort your cousin back to Professor Longbottom’s class.”

Seamus and Maeve practically ran from the room, and Harry imagined he could hear the castle crashing down around him with their combined gift for mayhem.

“So begins our series of lessons on pyrotechnical charms,” said Professor Flitwick with a grandiose sweep of his wand. Scrolls of parchment and strange-looking glass bulbs floated up from the table behind him to arrange themselves neatly before each student. “Naturally,” the professor continued, “you will all have learnt the basic spells involving fire and explosive force in years prior, but in these lessons we will build upon those tenets with a few more complicated and more dangerous charms that can be used for defensive or everyday household purposes.”

Harry lifted his own scroll to peer at the elaborate directions. “Bubbling Fire Charm?” he mouthed at Ron.

“No idea,” Ron mouthed back.

In the next ten minutes, Harry discovered that there was an entirely new set of charm theories that he hadn’t known about, that there were a thousand ways to get himself killed with one wrong wand movement, and lastly that by “Bubbling Fire Charm,” Professor Flitwick meant _lava._

In groups of two, students were asked to practise together without wands and then, when ready, to attach the odd bulbs to the end of their wands and give the charm a try.

“Oh, Professor!” Harry heard Hermione cry from a few feet away. She looked almost dizzy with excitement. “You were able to find the Vietnamese bulb-maker I was telling you about?”

“Yes, yes, Miss Granger,” squeaked Professor Flitwick, bobbing his head enthusiastically. “Such an ingenious idea, to anchor a containment charm to dragon-blown glass. A very clever find on your part, Miss Granger!”

“Wait,” Harry whispered to Ron, who was serving as his practise partner. “These bulb things have containment charms in them? What is that supposed to do?”

“It keeps the effects of any spell you cast contained inside the bulb,” said Ron, sounding almost like Hermione. “Works for small things like this, but not powerful enough if you’re trying to contain a room or a building.” He cast an unimpressed look Harry’s way. “You would’ve known that if you’d gotten here on time.”

“Oi, I was a bit busy after Herbology,” Harry protested.

“Sure, stalking the son of Voldemort’s chief arse-wiper,” said Ron, brandishing his wand.

Harry didn’t like the fact that he could feel his ears turning red, and he definitely didn’t like the fact that Ron appeared to have noticed it. “I wasn’t _stalking_ him. Blimey, Ron, you act like I put a Trace on him or something.”

“I reckon you’ve considered it,” said Ron. “You’ve been obsessed with him for so long, after all.”

“I am not _obsessed_ with him, Ron,” said Harry, rather desperately. “I’m just trying to help him.”

“Help him?” said Ron, blinking at him. “What exactly is it you think you can do to help?”

Harry sighed and flicked his wrist, making something that was not lava but was definitely on fire appear in his bulb. “I dunno. I haven’t thought that part through yet. But I can’t just let him be miserable without trying to do something.”

Ron’s bulb filled with swirling lava, but it was a violent blue rather than the sunset orange that Professor Flitwick had asked for. “I just think it’s odd, is all, that you’re getting so worked up about this bloke who was actively trying to kill you a few months ago.”

“But that’s not the whole story, Ron,” said Harry. “He was a kid before he was anything. We were in the duelling club before we were in the war.” There was a sour taste in his mouth. “Maybe I want to be a hero one more time.”

Ron looked at him then, and Harry felt exposed.

“You can be a right decent bloke, Harry,” said Ron. “But sometimes I think you took one too many Bludgers to the head.”

Harry snorted and shoved him, which turned out to be a mistake of mythic proportions as Ron stumbled into a desk and the bulb on his wand came off. The indigo-colored lava spewed eagerly out of the bulb and wand, seeping out onto the desk and the floor.

Ron hastily yelped the counterspell, but the damage was done. The desk and a sizeable patch of the floor had melted away to reveal a root cellar and a frightened elf who squeaked and Disapparated upon catching sight of Harry.

“Bollocks,” said Ron.

“Bollocks,” agreed Harry.

Hermione, saint that she was, waited patiently outside the classroom for them while they endured Flitwick’s long and ear-splitting lecture about classroom safety procedures. When the two boys emerged, heads down and feet dragging, she only tsked a little before grabbing their elbows and dragging them to their next class. Apparently, she had made her peace with having a friend and a boyfriend who destroyed classrooms, which was really quite generous of her, Harry thought.

Unfortunately, Potions didn’t go much better, mostly because Malfoy was in that class, acting distractingly undistracted, hair slicked back, robes pressed, tie in a perfect knot, shoes shined. It made Harry want to throw something at him, something to make him look messy and normal. Maybe if he had a hair out of place or his shirt was untucked, Harry would feel less discomfited by the idea of confronting him about his private problems.

Maybe, Harry thought wildly, he should start a food fight in the Great Hall. Malfoy covered in shepherd’s pie and various sauces was a vastly amusing image.

“Oh, Harry,” Slughorn tutted at his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you forgot to compliment the starfish spine before you put it in.”

Harry looked down at his cauldron to see the starfish spine making disgruntled zig-zagging movements and spewing thick streams of black sludge into his previously promising Nausea-Nix potion.

Luna peered over his shoulder, humming in interest. “Oh, was that it?” she asked, surprised. “I was going to say something to you, Harry, but I thought the spine might take offence if I said it wasn’t working right.”

Harry scratched his neck and turned off his burner. “It’s alright, Luna,” he said. “And sorry about that, Professor Slughorn. I can give it another go in your office hours if you like.”

Slughorn waved his hand and huffed. “Not to worry, my boy!” he said cheerily. “I’m sure you have a lot on your mind. But perhaps,” he added more quietly, “your luck with the spines might improve if you paid a visit to my good friend Professor Podipy.”

“Er,” said Harry. “I'll think about it.”

“Do, my boy, do,” said Professor Slughorn. “One of my brightest students back in the day, I must say. I really think we would all benefit from some time spent in his office, don't you?”

Harry was not about to spend his spare time with a purple-haired mentiwizard, especially one who took such excessive pleasure in offering unsolicited comfort and advice. He decided it was best not to tell Slughorn this, however, and nodded in agreement until the professor moved on to the next table.

“Professor Podipy is rather nice, Harry,” said Luna, cooing at her own preening starfish spine. “I did find his office a bit strange, which is why I don't go very often. What sort of mentiwizard doesn't set up wards against Nettling Knoxies?”

“Right, exactly,” said Harry, wondering what Nettling Knoxies were and whether or not he should be worried that there were apparently no wards guarding the castle against them.

“I've even seen some of the Slytherins visit him,” Luna went on. “Gregory goes nearly once a week.”

Harry frowned. “Who's Gregory?”

Luna blinked at him. “Gregory Goyle. Draco’s friend.”

Harry’s eyes automatically drifted over to Malfoy, who was looking intently at his starfish spine and muttering furiously under his breath. It seemed he was having trouble finding the proper way to flatter the spine. “Oh,” said Harry.

“I wish he'd convince Draco to come along,” said Luna. “If he can't sort out his Patronus soon, I don't know what they'll do.”

Harry’s head snapped up and his mouth fell open. “What?”

Luna’s silvery eyes widened in concern. “Harry,” she said. “Your starfish spine is trying to get out.”

Harry turned and quickly smashed a lid down over his cooling cauldron as the spine tapped angrily against the side. “What did you mean just then?” he demanded. “About Malfoy’s patronus?”

“Oh, well, I don't know the details,” said Luna, “but I've seen him practising and it's obvious he's doing the charm perfectly. The only reason I can think of is that the memory he’s using isn't strong enough. Maybe Professor Podipy can help him come up with some ideas.”

Tap tap tap, went the starfish spine.

“Maybe,” said Harry.

“Oh!” cried Luna. Her potion bubbled a sparkling peach-pink, likely winning her a perfect grade, but Luna wasn’t looking at her cauldron. She was looking at Harry.

“Er, what?” said Harry.

“Harry,” said Luna, lowering her voice, “why don’t you do it?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Do what?”

“Help Draco find a happy memory!”

“WHAT?” Harry yelped and his starfish spine’s tapping escalated into a ferocious and unrelenting banging. Hermione gave him a dirty look from where she was showing Parvati how to pare an Erumpent toenail.

“You taught the entire DA,” Luna went on, clearly convinced of the brilliance of her idea. “I’m sure if anyone could help him, you could.”

"That was different," argued Harry. "All I did was teach a few spells, show a few wand movements. I'm sure there's loads of people who know way more than I do about Patronuses."

"Harry," said Luna gently, in a way that told him he was being particularly thick, "I doubt Draco has any trouble with theories or wand movements. More than likely, he just needs someone to guide him. Someone to talk to."

Harry wanted to say she was barking mad, and he almost did, but then his eyes snagged on Malfoy scowling over his starfish spine and poking it with his wand, and his heart did a strange little thump in his chest. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try, he thought to himself. At the very least, he could try and get the tosser to smile for a change.

“What do I do?” Harry found himself asking, surprising himself. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the clanging noise coming from his cauldron.

Luna shrugged and began carefully tipping her potion into a glass vial. “What you always do.” She smiled at him. “Be a friend.”

“Be a friend,” Harry repeated quietly. It didn’t sound all that difficult. Not if the alternative was to let Malfoy skulk all the way to Easter, quietly miserable in his tight trousers, reading Quidditch magazines and kidnapping cats.

Luna raised her eyebrows at him, and he smiled back at her. “Might as well try,” he said with a shrug.

In front of him, he heard one last tap against the side of his cauldron, and then silence. Carefully, he slid the lid open just enough for him to peek inside. In the middle of the frothy orange mess that remained of his potion, the starfish spine bobbed happily. It seemed Harry had done something right.


	4. Binoculus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hello, I'm That Author who updates every six months. It's fine. Really.

_Binoculus:_ invented by Italian magizoologist Columba Canarecci, this charm can be used to observe objects from up to a mile away

Boris Bumblebroke, _Birdwatching for the Idle Witch or Wizard_

 

Saturday morning rose crisp and clear, and cold enough to have Harry bringing down his scarf and winter cloak to breakfast. Hermione and Ron were already seated together at the Gryffindor table, looking positively sickening as Hermione let Ron feed her a bite of his muffin. Across from them, Ginny sat with Luna, the former watching her brother’s display with abject horror, the latter happily piling jam onto her toast while the enormous green dragon hat on her head growled and puffed smoke from its nostrils.

Harry sat down next to Ginny to avoid the dragon hat’s swishing tail and immediately poured himself an enormous cup of hot cocoa. Across from him, Ron tore himself away from Hermione to grin at Harry.

“Ready for the match?” he asked.

“You should be asking me that,” said Ginny with a cross look. “I’m the captain after all. He’s not even on the team.”

“But Harry’ll probably go round the bend having to sit there watching that Odderly lad lose the match for you,” Ron argued.

“Odgerby,” Ginny corrected him. “And he’s really not that terrible. Keep your voice down.” She cast a look at the open doors, where sleepy-eyed first-years were beginning to wander in.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Please,” he scoffed more quietly. “Does the poor sod even know what a Snitch looks like?”

Ginny opened her mouth to reply, no doubt with a fiery set-down, but she was cut short when Luna’s dragon hat gave a great sneeze, singeing a plate of kippers. A few seats down, Seamus looked up with interest.

“Er,” said Harry. “Nice hat, Luna.”

Luna beamed at him and lifted a hand to move its tail away from her plate. “Thank you, Harry! It was a gift from a Thai wizard I met at a Wynona Fazwort concert last year.”

Harry nodded as though he knew exactly who Wynona Fazwort was. “Brilliant,” he said.

“I don’t have any snake hats—pity, that—but I thought a dragon might do in a pinch.” Luna bit into an apple.

“A snake hat?” Ron gaped at her. “Don't tell me you're cheering for the Slytherins today.”

Luna frowned as she chewed. “Why not? I thought it might be nice, since they won't have as many people in the stands.”

Ron and Ginny shared a betrayed look while Hermione rolled her eyes. “That’s very sweet of you, Luna,” she said. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate the support.” This remark cost her another bite of Ron’s muffin.

“They’ll need every bit,” said Ginny with bravado. “Our chasers are top-notch this year.”

“Their beaters are actually better though,” said Harry.

Ginny smirked at Ron. “Maybe if I get banged up enough, they’ll send me to St. Mungo’s and bunk me next to Lavender.”

“Oi!” hollered Ron. “None of that!” His ears went almost as red as his hair.

Harry was torn between laughter and tears, and in the end he smothered both into his hot chocolate. He had a feeling his ears were red too. There was a good chance he would never be able to look Lavender in the eye again.

“Sorry,” said Ginny. “I forgot I’m supposed to be a 17-year-old virgin incapable of wanting to shag my girlfriend.”

Ron moved his plate to the side so that he could plant his face on the table and let out a deep, anguished groan. Hermione patted his shoulder sympathetically while Harry tried to cough the hot chocolate back out of his lungs.

Luna reached behind Ginny to thump Harry on the back. “Come to think of it, Harry,” she said, “you should sit with me during the match.”

Harry blinked at her, still sputtering. “In the Slytherin stands?”

“That’s where Draco will be,” she said. “It might be a good chance to befriend him.”

There was a moment of pregnant silence, and then three voices chorused all at once: “ _Befriend Malfoy_?” Even Ron lifted his head at the idea.

“You didn’t tell them about my idea, Harry?” Luna asked with a frown.

Hermione was narrowing her eyes rather fiercely. “What idea?”

Harry scratched his head and glanced furtively over his shoulder at the Slytherin table, but only Goyle had made it to breakfast so far, and he was busy staring gloomily into his porridge. Harry turned back to his friends, who were looking at him as though he’d announced he was in love with Moaning Myrtle. “Luna suggested I try helping Malfoy with his patronus,” he said rather meekly. “Be a tutor, as it were.”

“To Malfoy,” said Hermione.

“An ex-Death Eater,” added Ron.

“Who tried to kill Dumbledore,” added Ginny.

“And smuggled Death Eaters into the castle,” added Hermione.

“And—”

Harry cut them off before they could warm up to their topic any further. “That doesn't mean he shouldn't know how to defend himself, especially against Dementors.”

Luna nodded in agreement. “Harry’s right. If we want to move on, we should help everyone move on with us, not just the people who chose the right side.”

This seemed to put a stopper in the conversation, but Harry didn't miss the bothered looks on his friends’ faces. Only Luna and her purring dragon hat appeared relatively unruffled, which was not much comfort.

Malfoy was not mentioned for the rest of breakfast. In fact, Slytherins in general were avoided on account of Ginny’s growing despair over the unfortunate state of her young Seeker, Miles Odgerby, who had at last stumbled into the Great Hall looking green and clutching a handful of what looked suspiciously like candy wrappers from George’s shop.

They were all late arriving to the Quidditch pitch after deciding to accompany Ginny and Odgerby to the Gryffindor locker room (mainly to keep her from hexing him). Luna’s hat, which appeared greatly displeased by all of the commotion around it, nearly set the poor young Seeker’s hair on fire when he took a moment between bouts of violent dry-heaving to sob dramatically about his distaste for sports.

The first thing Harry noticed, as he reluctantly followed Luna up into the Slytherin stands, was that there were almost as many Hufflepuffs as there were Slytherins. They all seemed to be on friendly terms with Luna, waving to her as she led Harry past them, and strangest of all was how vigorously they were smiling at and talking to the Slytherins scattered across the stands. It was almost like they were there to do the exact same thing as Harry and Luna—to offer support.

The second thing Harry noticed, and by far the more important issue at hand, was that Malfoy was nowhere in sight. Luna didn’t seem bothered when he told her this, however.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” she said lightly. Her dragon hat rumbled and flicked its tail agreeably.

“The match is about to start. Maybe he decided not to come,” Harry argued. He sounded a great deal more petulant than he meant to, but it was too late to help it.

“Don’t tell me you’re looking for Draco again.”

Harry turned to find Astoria Greengrass eyeing him from a few seats up, looking distinctly unimpressed. “Er,” he said. “Yes.”

Astoria sighed and spared a glance at Luna before returning her attention to Harry. “You’re right, Potter,” she said coolly. “Draco won’t be attending today.”

This would be about the time that Harry would turn to Luna with a patronising I-told-you-so look, but he was too distracted by the sudden weight of disappointment that hit his gut.

“Is he sick?” asked Luna. “There were quite a few Wrackspurts around him in Potions yesterday.”

“I have no idea,” Astoria replied. She flipped her gleaming hair over one shoulder and murmured a fresh shield charm against the snarling November winds. “But I'm sure it's not anyone’s business but his own what he does with his free time. Even if it involves Wrackspurts.” Her nose crinkled uncertainly on the last word.

Harry was tempted to agree, but that would mean admitting it was none of _Harry’s_ business either, and obviously it was. It was Malfoy, after all.

Luna turned to Harry with a frown. “Bad luck, Harry. Though I suppose you'll see him at supper.” Her hat huffed out a warming cloud of smoke, blinking lazily.

Astoria narrowed her eyes. “You always did like to stalk him, Potter, but you used to be a touch more discreet about it.”

Harry had a rather clever retort on the tip of his tongue, but Luna, to his eternal horror, saved him the trouble. “Harry doesn't want to stalk him anymore,” she said earnestly. “He just wants to talk to him.”

Damn Luna and her bloody hat too. “I never _stalked_ Malfoy,” Harry said hastily. “I just kept a close eye on him, is all.”

Astoria pursed her lips and raised a skeptical brow. “We can argue semantics after the match. And if you're really intent on talking to Draco, then by all means try. It's been so long since he's hexed someone, I'm beginning to wonder if he remembers how.”

“You're funny, you are,” said Harry.

“He mentioned going to the lake,”Astoria continued, ignoring him. “I’d start looking there.”

“Thanks, Astoria.” Luna beamed at her and began herding Harry back to the entrance, evidently determined to see her utterly mad idea through. “Harry, you go ahead," she instructed, "and I’ll tell you how the match goes.”

“Oh, and Potter,” Astoria called out. She smirked at him. “Your scarf’s on fire.”

The dragon hat gave a pleased hiss.

 

Malfoy was not at the lake. Harry scowled at the rippling grey water and then in the direction of the Quidditch pitch, where Astoria was no doubt laughing smugly over having sent Harry on a wild goose chase. Not to mention that he was now significantly colder without his scarf.

Harry felt a shudder rattling down his spine, but he stuffed his mittened hands under his arms and did his best to ignore it, concentrating on the more important matter of trundling his way back through the icy grounds to the castle. In the distance he could hear the roars of the students in the stands carried by the sharp, snapping November wind. Slytherin was probably giving Gryffindor a proper lashing about now, but Harry found he didn't mind the thought quite as much as he thought he would. Even if the Slytherin captain was a complete knob.

“A complete and total knob,” Harry repeated aloud to himself. It was a satisfying thing to say, so he said it over and again as he approached the castle doors. The words made him feel as though he was doing his part to cheer the Gryffindor team on from a distance.

The great doors cracked open in a burst of sudden warmth and yellow light to let Harry in, just as a flurry of blond hair and broomstick flew out. He heard someone who definitely was not him let out a great holler, and all at once Harry was blinking stupidly at the sudden sight of the silvery sky.

“Oi, Potter!”

Harry’s head shot up from the ground so fast he could nearly hear the _clang_ of his brain knocking against his skull. A groan rankled in his throat as he saw Malfoy on the ground a few feet away with dirt on his chin and a ferocious scowl on his face. Between them lay Malfoy’s broom, trembling slightly as though it wasn't sure whether or not it should carry on flying.

Harry sat up as Malfoy did the same. He had the rather fantastic idea to ask Malfoy if he was all right, but the notion was immediately and emphatically dismissed. It was Harry who had been knocked over, after all. Instead he went with, “What the fuck?”

Malfoy glowered at him. “Don't even consider blaming me, Potter. You had plenty of time to duck.”

Harry slipped on his first attempt to stand, so shocked was he by Malfoy’s nerve. “You were the one on the broom! Why couldn't you have flown around me?”

“How could I have, when you and your bloody massive head take up the whole doorway?”

Harry tried to stand once more, and this time he was successful, though he felt less than graceful. Malfoy remained with his arse firmly planted on the ground, his arms crossed in what Harry considered an extraordinarily petulant way. He wondered if he might just leave Malfoy there to sulk and save himself the trouble of a retort.

“Were you planning on offering a hand, or is the Saviour above such things?”

Harry glared and stayed where he was. “I was considering it until you started with that bloody Saviour rubbish.”

Malfoy tumbled to his feet almost as clumsily as Harry had and reached down for his broom. “Just as well. We can't expect the Chosen One to bother with such unimportant niceties.”

“You are the most massive _tit_.” Harry knew he was letting Malfoy goad him on, but the cold and the new ache in his back made it difficult to hold his tongue.

“So pleased you could take your head out of your arse long enough to tell me,” said Malfoy. He swung one leg over the hovering broomstick, no doubt eager to have the last word.

Well, that wouldn’t do at all. “Wait!” said Harry.

Malfoy paused a few feet above Harry, his sigh loud enough to be heard above the wind. “Potter, if you want me to hex you that badly, there are simpler ways to ask.”

“Listen, if you’d just—”

Malfoy was off before Harry could come up with a reason to make him stay. He made a rather showy twist with his broom as he cut through the air toward the lake until all Harry could see of him was a speck of black cloak.

“Well done, Harry,” he muttered. He wrapped his cloak tightly around himself and turned back to the doors, which widened further like arms reaching out, pulling him into the warmth of the castle. The only person there to greet him was Sir Nicholas, who was busy grumbling to himself about some sort of slight he’d received from the Bloody Baron. Harry passed by him unnoticed.

The corridors were deserted as he made his way up to Gryffindor Tower. Even the Fat Lady’s portrait was empty. Harry spent a good ten minutes searching the other paintings until he found her gossiping with a group of nuns and was forced to use every manner of flattery to coax her back to her own frame. By the time he reached the cozy mess of his dormitory, he was only too happy to fling off his cloak and collapse face first into his bed.

“What am I doing?” Harry asked his pillow.

The pillow had no answers. Harry turned his head to look out the window, the glass greyed over with a thin fog. His fingers were curled into the bedcovers, still thawing from the chill. He could feel a frown pulling at his mouth.

He had tried, hadn’t he? It was Malfoy who was being difficult. Harry had made every effort to approach him, to confront him, and in return he’d only received insults and a fresh broom-shaped bruise to his chest. Malfoy was clearly not interested in making nice. Luna’s plan couldn’t have anticipated the obstacle of Malfoy’s own stubborn, snobbish personality. There was really nothing to be done when it came down to it.

Harry sighed and pulled himself up to rest his weight on his elbows. _Be a friend,_ Luna had said. How was he supposed to manage that? With Malfoy, of all people? The same boy who had reached out a hand to him seven years ago, looking down his pureblood nose and offering something that sounded more like an alliance than a friendship. And after all, every attempt he’d made thus far at drawing Malfoy out had ended in a shouting match. They had hated each other for too long, been enemies for too long. Maybe it was too much to ask for anything more than uncomfortable coexistence.

Yes, Harry decided, nodding to himself. Really, he should be grateful Malfoy didn’t accompany every insult with a jinx or a slur. That was progress in and of itself.

And still, no more than five minutes later, his fingers were frozen around his broomstick and the wind was clawing at his face and neck as he sliced into the sky. Malfoy was exactly where the Marauder’s Map said he’d be, hovering on his broom near the trees that skirted the lake. A Binoculus Charm glimmered around his eyes as he watched the Quidditch match in the distance. He didn’t bother to turn his head when Harry reached him.

Harry didn’t know what to say so he cast his own Binoculus Charm instead and stayed silent. The air in front of his eyes stilled and sharpened, until he could see clearly the players in their red and green robes, even down to the numbers on their backs. From his current angle he couldn’t see the scoreboard, but from the grins the Slytherin beaters were sporting and the anxious faces in the Gryffindor stands, Harry reckoned it wasn’t going well.

“Your Seeker fell off his broom two minutes in,” said Malfoy, and his voice gave Harry such a shock that he nearly fell off his own broom.

Malfoy’s only response was a slight but blatantly unimpressed twist of his mouth.

“I’m not surprised at that,” said Harry. “Poor chap could barely stand when last I saw him. He apparently doesn't like Quidditch.” The words were casual, but they felt uncomfortable and bulky in his mouth when directed at Malfoy.

“I doubt he knows one end of a broom from the other,” Malfoy drawled. His voice sounded empty, like he couldn’t be bothered to fill it in with his usual sneer.

Harry thought about defending little Odgerby, but he suspected arguing might squash the cautious civility between them, so he said nothing. The silence crowded close, cold and a little awkward. Harry cast a warming charm under his breath and, after a moment of panicked consideration, cast one on Malfoy too. Those grey eyes slotted towards him for a moment, mouth slanted like a question, and then Malfoy was looking away again, back to the pitch.

Across the grounds, Harry could see Cybele Withercott weaving underneath a Slytherin, Quaffle in hand, just as a Bludger struck the tail-end of her broom and sent her spiralling downwards. Ginny looked murderous.

“Wish you were playing?” asked Malfoy.

The question was so quiet, Harry almost thought he’d imagined it. He stared at Malfoy. “Not really,” he said. Funnily enough, he meant it. It was rather nice to sit here on his broom in the quiet and watch from a distance, no need to worry about points or Snitches or the many eyes on him.

Malfoy didn’t seem convinced. His lip curved down again in something more complex than a frown. “Tired of the spotlight, Saviour?”

Harry thought of Luna and her plan and he forced himself to stay put rather than turning around and leaving Malfoy to his snippy comments. “A bit,” he admitted.

Malfoy sighed, evidently disappointed. His eyes followed the Slytherin seeker as she twisted through the air, tiny gold Snitch flittering ahead of her. “Is that why you’re suddenly so interested in me, Potter? Bored with fame and fortune already?”

It was the usual words with the usual snide tone, but flatter somehow, without any real force. Malfoy didn’t mean it.

“You know why I’m interested in you, Malfoy,” said Harry. In spite of the warming charm, his fingers were beginning to go stiff and icy around his broomstick. He thought longingly of the gloves stowed away in his trunk back in the dormitory.

Malfoy’s sigh bloomed silver in the cold air. He looked away from the match, towards the Forbidden Forest. “I realise you’ve gotten used to being the hero, Potter, but I don’t need help, least of all from you.”

Harry took one hand from his broom to stuff under the warmth of his cloak. “Why not?” he asked.

The only response he got was another loud exhale.

“Patronus Charms are complicated at the best of times, Malfoy. If you’d just let someone—”

“It’s nobody’s business but mine,” Malfoy interrupted. His mouth was curled up in a snarl but he didn’t look at Harry.

“Listen,” said Harry. “I’m not saying I can help. I’m just saying I’d _like_ to. If you’d let me.” He hesitated. “You don’t have to go it alone.”

Malfoy’s eyes shot up to meet Harry’s. Harry watched his jaw flex. “And if I don’t let you?” He tilted his head as he spoke, looking oddly fragile in the wind and grey daylight.

Harry shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time you turned down someone’s help.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The look in Malfoy’s eyes told Harry this conversation was about to take a turn for the worse. He put both hands back on his broom and held on firmly just in case a hex was sent his way. “I know it’s not my business,” he said carefully.

“Then why,” said Malfoy through gritted teeth, “won’t you keep your nose out of it?”

“Because you deserve a second chance just like everyone else,” said Harry. He felt a funny little twinge in his middle at the bewildered look on Malfoy’s face.  “You deserve to move on just like everyone else.”

“Charming sentiment,” Malfoy sneered, but his eyes were still narrowed uncertainly.

Harry sighed. “Look, Malfoy,” he said. “I’m no expert, but I’ve been casting the Patronus charm since third year and I taught it to the DA as well.”

“Yes, an impressive résumé indeed, Potter,” snapped Malfoy. “It boggles the mind to realise the extent of your accomplishments.”

“That’s not what I meant, you prat, and you know it.” Harry saw Malfoy drawing up on his broom, affronted look on his face and mouth open ready to deliver some scathing retort. He hastily went on: “I just meant that I’m familiar with the spell and if you need help, I reckon I wouldn’t be entirely useless.”

Malfoy looked at the Quidditch pitch, where the Slytherin seeker was holding up the Snitch victoriously while her teammates flew in circles around her. The Slytherin stands were a riot of green and yellow. Harry thought he could even see Luna’s dragon hat spreading its wings and letting out an enthusiastic stream of fire.

“If I say no,” Malfoy said in a resigned sort of voice, “you won’t leave me alone, will you?”

“That’s right,” said Harry, which was a bit of a lie. Harry’s patience had a limit after all, but Malfoy didn’t need to know that.

Malfoy let out his most impressive sigh yet. His breath shimmered out in a grey plume. Harry didn’t know why he found the sight so interesting.

“Have it your way then, Potter,” said Malfoy. “You can be my partner in Defence on Tuesday and tell me everything I’m doing wrong. I’ll even read your notes if you like.”

Before Harry could do more than frown—what notes?—Malfoy spoke again with a more familiar sneer. “What a thrill it will be to have my spellwork critiqued by the Chosen One himself.”

Harry blinked. “That wasn’t quite what I—”

Malfoy was off towards the castle, cloak billowing behind him, and for the second time that day Harry found himself saying, “What the fuck?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's that. I don't feel like this chapter was my best work, but I've been sitting on it for weeks now and I thought I ought to just put it up and get it over with so I can concentrate on the next chapter (which I've already begun working on, neverfear loves).  
> Anyway, cheers, and please drop a line in the comments if you like.


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